


The angel, the demon and the detective

by Musyque



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, John has no clue, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Case, Sherlock's Violin, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), aziraphale's life in the 1850', crowley is oblivious, david copperfield - Freeform, everyting is actually because of a book, sherlock wants to find a present
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:34:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29133375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyque/pseuds/Musyque
Summary: In 6000 of living on Earth,  the angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley have met quite a few people. But when Aziraphale became friend with Charles Dickens in the 1850s, he couldn't know that it would change his life in a way no other friendships had ever done. The only souvenir he has kept of that time is a book, Dickens' most personal one: David Copperfield.In another part of London, a famous detective is struggling to find a present for his best friend's birthay. Hopefully, Mrs Hudson is here to save the day.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello !  
> This is the first fanfiction I post here, it is not complete yet but I hope you still enjoy it !

Sherlock was anxious. It was not a feeling he was familiar with and he didn't like it at all but he had a very good reason to be: in less than a week, it was John's birthday. Not that he didn't have a gift idea in mind; he knew exactly what to offer him. The problem was that the book he wanted to give him was nowhere to be found.

He was looking for something very peculiar, a first edition of Charles Dickens' David Copperfield which he knew had been John's favorite as a child. It was the perfect present, and Sherlock wanted this birthday to be perfect: it was John's first after Eurus. He had visited what seemed to be a hundred bookshops and was starting to think that the book didn't even exist. Of course, he could always turn to Mycroft but asking for his brother's help felt like cheating. He wanted to find John's gift on his own.

Six days before the big day, he received a call from Lestrade. The police was having some trouble with a case. Not unusual, Sherlock thought, and most of the time he liked demonstrating his superiority to all those inspectors who thought they were special because they had been given a badge, but that day, all he felt was anger. One time, just one time, he wanted them to finally be smart enough to resolve the case without his help.

But he couldn't just say "no" –actually he could, but he was still having trouble with refusing an opportunity to look clever- so he called John, put on his coat and grabbed a taxi and about 20 minutes later he was in a jewelry store standing over a dead body.

The poor man, who appeared to be the owner of the store, had been stabbed three times, twice in the stomach and once on the throat, but the cuts weren't from the same weapon.

"The body was found this morning", Lestrade announced. "Someone in the street noticed the broken storefront and called the police. According to the first observations, he was killed around 11pm yesterday. It's the third robbery in a month, but the first with a murder."

Sherlock kneeled next to the body and took out his pocket magnifier, carefully examining his wounds. The one on the stomach apparently came from a rather large and sharp knife and the one on the throat from something smaller. He went to the other side of the body and looked again. Then he stood up and faced Lestrade, who was silently waiting, his arms crossed upon his chest.

"There were two attackers, at least. One of them was threatening him and keeping him from calling someone –that's how he was cut on the throat-, and when they had what they wanted, they killed him."

"How do you know there were two of them?" Lestrade asked.

"Do you ever look at what's in front of you? The cut on the throat was provided by someone standing right behind him, according to the wound's emplacement. So the person had to be left-handed, otherwise the wound would have been on the right side of the throat. As for the other ones, they're on the right side of the stomach. Besides, who would carry two different types of weapon?"

He didn't wait for an answer and proceeded with his investigation. John, who was until then taking notes, joined him.

"Sherlock, what are we doing here? It doesn't look like something the police can't handle" he said in a hushed voice, so that the others couldn't hear him.

"As usual, John, you see but you don't observe. Lestrade had a very good reason to call us. You see the glass door behind you?"

"The one that has been broken by the thieves? Of course. Why?"

"It was broken from the inside."

"What?"

John turned around and looked at the broken glass scattered on the floor, without seeing anything anomalous. For him, it looked like the thieves had broken the door in order to get inside the shop, as thieves usually did.

Sherlock had disappeared behind the counter, and came out a few seconds later.

"What was the man still doing here at this time of the night?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was a habit."

"No, he wasn't supposed to be there" Sherlock muttered. "He was living above the shop, right? What about we take a look there?"

A few moments later, they were all in the apartment. Sherlock went straight to the dead man's bedroom, as he already knew what he would find there. He then went to the kitchen and the bathroom, before joining the others in the living room.

"Alright. Our man was supposed to go to Manchester, however his flight was cancelled. Of course the thieves couldn't know that, so they came all the same. But our man is a light sleeper and he heard someone unlocking the door. He went downstairs, and ran into them. They were as surprised as him, but better prepared. One of them threatened him with the screwdriver he had taken to open the store cashier. The other went upstairs and took a knife in the kitchen. They took the money, and they killed him."

As usual, all the people in the room were amazed by his deductions, including John who was used to it. That was why he would never get tired of investigating with Sherlock.

"How on Earth can you know all of this?" Lestrade asked.

"Simple. You told me it was the third robbery and the first one with a murder, which means the thieves were careful to come when the owners weren't there. That was confirmed when I saw a cabin suitcase full to the brim. If he was travelling by train, he would have taken a bigger one, and if he was still home, his flight must have been cancelled, and the only one that was cancelled yesterday was London-Manchester.

As I have already told John, the storefront door has been broken from the inside. However, I highly doubt the owner would have let the door open during the night so one of the thieves must have had a key. They opened the door and therefore made the doorbell ring but at that time they still thought they were alone. Yet the sound woke up our man and he went downstairs."

"How do you know he was a light sleeper?"

"I found sleeping pills in his suitcase, and there were too many to be used only on the flight. That means he had trouble sleeping, and since they were still in his bag, he didn't take them yesterday. Now, if I could go back to what's actually important. Thank you.

So, once he was in the shop, he discovered the thieves. They thought he wouldn't be there, so they had to have taken something to open the store cashier. Seeing its emplacement and form, it must have been a screwdriver. Besides, that would match his cut on the throat. But if they used it to threaten the owner, they couldn't take the money, and so one of them had to get another weapon. There is a knife display in the kitchen, and a large one is missing.

Now that they had the situation in hand, they could take the money. The problem was, they couldn't let the man live now that he had seen them, because he knew one of the thieves. They had to kill him. Then before leaving, they broke the glass door to make the police think that was how they came in."

"What makes you think he knew one of them?"

"How else would they have got the key of the front door?"

The funny thing with Sherlock was that once he explained his deductions, it always seemed so simple and perfectly logical, and it made them wonder how they could have missed all these details. That was why you needed Sherlock on a crime scene: to put together all the pieces.

But Sherlock was already leaving, and both John and Lestrade hurried behind him.

"I need a list of everyone that works here, everyone that could have the key, along with all the potential girlfriends and family, although I highly doubt he was in a relationship. Oh and," he added just before going out of the shop, "you should analyze all the glass fragments. You might find blood stains on them."

***

He had however shared his "birthday problem" with Mrs Hudson, knowing she wouldn't tell John, but he hadn't expected her to actually help him with it. Yet his landlady was full of surprises and one morning, as he was working on a new case –although he had not dropped the robbery- she sneaked up into the kitchen with a smile on her face.

"Sherlock! I've got some great news about your trouble with..."

She lowered her voice.

"John's birthday's present."

"John is out working, Mrs Hudson", Sherlock replied, his eyes glued to a microscope. "You don't need to whisper like that."

But it had triggered his attention, so in an attempt to be civilized and to keep his landlady from running away, he looked away from the object he was analyzing –a piece of blue fabric- and turned to Mrs Hudson.

"You know my friend Helene. Well it was her birthday last week and she invited some people to celebrate it. It was all rather lovely but the cake wasn't too good. I thought it had too much cream in it. But on the other hand, the champagne was delicious..."

"Get to the point, please", Sherlock asked, suddenly eager to return to his current case, which implied to find out whether the blue fabric had pink stains on it or not.

"Yes, yes. So we were all giving her our gifts, and I remember Amanda had found a very rare book, a signed copy of Victor Hugo's poetry book. Somebody asked her where it came from and apparently there is a very nice bookshop in Soho where they sell very rare editions..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley thinks about his feelings. Sherlock manages to come to the bookshop during the opening hours. Aziraphales hates selling his books; besides, the one Sherlock is asking for is very special to him.

It had been two months since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t or, as Crowley had renamed it, “Armageddon’t”, and the world had never been more peaceful. Both Aziraphale and Crowley had returned to their former occupations, the first one in his bookshop, the other to his plants. Neither Heaven nor Hell had ever bothered them again.

Well, truth be told, Crowley actually spend more time in the bookshop than in his apartment and practically lived there now. He only went back to his to sleep, yet sometimes he would fall asleep on Aziraphale’s sofa and the angel wouldn’t have the heart to wake him up.

Their respective head offices weren’t watching over them anymore, and if they hadn’t been free until then they were now. They had all the time in the world –literally speaking- to do whatever they liked best. They had had dinner, had spent nights getting drunk or talking about rather everything or, in Crowley’s case, had slept. Quite a lot. Especially during the first days. But, as he had reminded Aziraphale lots of time, it’s not every day that you drive a flaming Bentley from London to Tadfield in order to prevent the end of the world. And Aziraphale wouldn’t mind anyway. He liked watching his demon sleep.

Being able to spend so much time with Crowley still gave him a strange feeling. They had spent millennia meeting covertly once every century or so and now, he could enjoy the demon’s company all day without worrying about the latter’s safety.

As for Crowley, the whole new “proximity thing” had led him to something a demon wasn’t usually supposed to feel: hope. But then again Crowley wasn’t an ordinary demon. First of all, as he very much liked to remind everyone who asked –and even those who did not- he hadn’t actually meant to fall. Secondly, he had helped to stop Armageddon. And lastly he was in love with a certain angel. Not that it was something new to him: he had been for the last 6000 years. Still.

And now that Armageddon had been adverted and they got to spend the rest of their lives, which was eternity, together, he was starting to hope that maybe, maybe, Aziraphale could feel the same.

But that was just a stupid thought, wasn’t it? How could Aziraphale love him, a demon? Yes, they had become friends and yes, the angel cared about him. However there was a huge gap between being friends and being…well, more than friends. And so Crowley just kept on hiding his feelings, with more or less success. He didn’t want Aziraphale to find out, scared that he might reject him, and he couldn’t picture his life without Aziraphale.

Today was a very normal day, as all days had been for the past two months. Crowley, as usual, was sleeping on Aziraphale’s sofa in the bookshop’s backroom, because sleeping was one of the few things he loved almost as much as Aziraphale –that, and pissing off Hastur. As for the angel himself, he was reorganizing his books, because he had suddenly had the odd feeling that Shakespeare’s plays just couldn’t stay put next to Moliere’s and needed a special shelf.

Halfway through it, he heard the doorbell ring but he didn’t bother to look up. Customers usually just hung out in the shop before realizing Aziraphale didn’t _actually_ want to sell any of his books. So he wasn’t prepared to hear the newcomer call for the owner.

“Just a second, I’m coming”, he responded.

He put Hamlet in its new place and headed to the entrance of the shop where a tall, dark headed man in a long black coat was standing.

Sherlock, for it was him, was already looking around the place. He had managed to come there while it was open, which he had realized had been luck given the shop had the strangest opening hours he had ever seen.

The inside was no less curious. It seemed to be a very old shop, yet the lack of prices on the books told him the owner did not sell very much of them. Then how did he manage to keep the place open? Every corner of the room was filled with thick volumes, all quite ancient but in perfect state. In fact, every object here seemed like they belonged to the last century. As for the owner himself…

He appeared from between shelves. At first glance, Sherlock knew he was older than he seemed –but how older, he had no idea- and that he had spent one…no, two hours reading recently. Then, he discovered he was in love with someone, a close friend apparently, but he wouldn’t admit it to himself. And then…nothing. Just a feeling that something was off with him, but he couldn’t put any word on it.

This man was interesting.

“How can I help you? Aziraphale asked.

“I’m looking for something rather specific”, Sherlock said, taking another look around. There was also a second floor above them, though he couldn’t find anyways of getting there. “A first edition of _David Copperfield_.”

“Oh. I’m afraid I don’t have that”, the blonde man said and Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that besides being actually sorry, he was also relieved.

A bookseller who didn’t want to sell his books? Definitely interesting.

“Are you quite certain? the detective insisted. I’ve been looking for it for ages.”

Aziraphale thought about it. He wasn’t technically lying by saying he didn’t have it in the shop, but he knew exactly where to find it. And he really didn’t want to sell it. However, something about Sherlock told him he wouldn’t let go so easily.

“When do you need it?”

“By Tuesday morning at the latest.”

Aziraphale winced. That gave him less than three days.

“Well, you can always leave me your phone number, that way I can call you if I happen to find it.”

Sherlock did as he was told, unable to retain a smile. He could see how much Aziraphale wanted him to go, and how much his request displeased him. He also knew he could stop searching for the book. Eventually he left, turning up his collar as he went down the street. Interesting indeed…

***

The second Sherlock went out of sight, Aziraphale closed the shop. He had seen enough customers for the rest of the day.

He didn’t know what to do.

He knew he had just a phone call to make to have the book there two days later, just in time to give it to Sherlock. However, he couldn’t resign himself to it. The only copy he ever had of _David Copperfield_ was full of memories and the thought of giving it away…

When Crowley woke up two hours later it was to find Aziraphale, sitting at his desk, thinking. Crowley stood still and observed the angel, who seemed to be fighting with himself. Aziraphale took the phone in front of him, looked at it before putting it back down. He repeated the scene two more times before Crowley spoke up, causing the angel to jump.

“What are you doing?”

“Crowley! I didn’t hear you coming in.”

“Obviously.”

Aziraphale’s fingers were still nervously tapping on the phone device. Crowley sat down on the desk and turned towards the angel.

“So, what are you doing?” he asked again.

“Somebody came in looking for _David Copperfield_.”

“Oh.”

Crowley, being the best friend he was, knew all about Aziraphale and Charles Dickens’ friendship. And though he would never admit it, he had been kind of jealous of the novelist at that time, but it was nothing to how he had felt about Oscar Wilde. But then he himself had been very close to one Freddy Mercury.

“Are you really considering selling it?” Crowley asked, pointing at the telephone in front of them. “I thought you said you didn’t want anyone but the family to have it.”

“I know”, Aziraphale responded with a painful look on his face.”But there is something about this Sherlock Holmes that makes me think I would do good by selling it to him. When he asked about it, I could feel…love.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. His angel was so freakishly soft –that actually came with being an angel- that he always tended to make other people’s interest pass before his own. That was something he had still trouble to understand as he could only see one person whose interests were worth giving up everything, and that was Aziraphale.

“Do as you like angel, but don’t come crying on my shoulder when you’ll miss it.”

To be quite honest, he would be very pleased if Aziraphale ever came crying on his shoulder, but he couldn’t just say it.

The angel stared at him with _the_ look on his face, the one that made him look so innocent and lovely –because no matter how he tried, that was all he could look like- and that made Crowley lose it. He needed to change the subject. Now.

“What about if I buy you lunch? I think it is time already.”

Aziraphale’s face lightened up.

“I think it is indeed.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we discover why the book holds a special place in Aziraphale's heart

Six thousand years was a long time. In six thousand years, you could meet a lot of people and make lots of friends. And you had to, because being alone for millennia could quickly become quite boring.

Crowley and Aziraphale, being on opposite sides, had different interests and therefore did not get close to the same people. For example, during the 17th century, both of them spent some years in France. When Aziraphale rapidly started spending time with Mme de La Fayette, Molière and Racine, Crowley entered the court of Louis the 14th, in order to perform some demonic miracles of course. He remembered very clearly that day when all the mirrors in the Hall of Mirrors became distorting ones. That had been fun.

And even if both Aziraphale and Crowley liked theatre and shared an equal passion for Shakespeare’s work, the angel was the book lover. After all, he had been the one to open a bookshop, so no wonder he had created bonds with a lot of writers over the centuries.

He met Charles Dickens on a cold morning of February 1834. He was in his bookshop, as usual, when someone came in and started wandering between the shelves. At first, Aziraphale didn’t pay attention to the visitor but at one point the latter started the conversation. If the angel only responded not to sound rude, he quickly knew that there was something special in this young man. But like all special men, he could take the wrong path. It was then that Aziraphale decided to look after him.

Charles, who thought Aziraphale was a literary criticism, asked him to read his works in progress and the angel had to admit Charles had the skills to become a great author. He helped him publishing his first story, _The Posthumous Papers of the Pitwick club_ (with the help of a little miracle), which was immediately loved.

Charles genuinely liked Aziraphale. He invited him to his wedding with Catherine in 1835, and when Mary Scott Hogarth died in 1837, the angel was the first person Charles talked to. But then again, everybody liked Aziraphale. After all, he was an angel. Catherine liked having him for dinner and on many occasions he spent the night at the Dickens’ house.

Charles’ life was not all good and he had to face a lot of issues, and Aziraphale always tried to help him. But in 1844, his daughter Kate went sick.

Kate was Charles’ favorite at that time, for she looked just like her aunt Mary. She was five, but very awake to her surroundings and very clever and so when the disease declared, everybody in the house prayed for her recovery.

Aziraphale had healed lots of people over the millennia and had lots of experience in that area (after all, he had lived during the 14th century). He knew how to do it, and also knew that he needed to do it soon before it was too late, even for him. But this time, he wasn’t allowed to: Gabriel had sent him another note threatening to actually send him back to Heaven if he continued with his “frivolous miracles”. He couldn’t risk it: leaving Earth meant leaving his bookshop, Charles, and most of all leaving Crowley. Yet he couldn’t just let this poor child die, not when he had the power to prevent it. Moreover, he really like Charles and seeing him so desperate and sad hurt him as well.

He was furious.

One day, he closed the bookshop and went to Charles. The man was surprised to see him there, but Aziraphale told him he would stay there until Kate had recovered. Charles didn’t say anything, but the angel could clearly see the gratitude in his eyes.

Two nights later, her state went worse. Her fever had increased, and she was having nightmares, screaming and fighting in her sleep against an invisible enemy. Both men were by her side, Charles holding his hand, talking to her, begging her to open her eyes and Aziraphale watching from afar. Catherine, unable to see her daughter like that, was in her room and had told them not to disturb her until something had changed.

It was then that Aziraphale took a decision.

He invented a ridiculous reason to make Charles exit the room. The man wouldn’t hear it but Aziraphale insisted: Kate could die any second now and he had to act fast, if there was only something he could do. When Charles eventually accepted, Aziraphale closed the door behind him and approached the bed and placed his hands on the girl’s chest, letting is powers run through him.

This miracle needed Aziraphale to be strong, both physically and emotionally. It wasn’t the first time he’d healed someone close to death, but it was the first time he did so without Heaven’s approval. But he could not afford to think of the consequences now or else he would get distracted. He forced his mind to think of Kate, and only of Kate. He needed to concentrate and so he closed his eyes to better visualize. His whole body was now glowing of pure light, so brightly that a human could not look at it without his eyes being instantly burned. His wings unfolded and formed like a shield around the girl’s body. It was like Heaven down on Earth.

His eyes still closed, he pictured his powers spreading into Kate’s body, reaching her heart first, then her lungs, her brain, entering her veins and diffusing everywhere.

He eventually couldn’t handle the power anymore and had to let go. Suddenly exhausted, he almost fell down and had to grab the headboard to stand still. His heart was pounding in his chest and the whole world was spinning around him.

He had no idea how long it had taken. Was Kate all right? Would she live?

He risked an eye on her and his lips formed a smile. She was breathing deeply again and had stopped struggling in her sleep. She seemed peaceful.

Aziraphale had no time to feel relieved for he was already hearing footsteps down the hall. A second later Charles busted into the room, holding a basin filled with water. The angel was sure he had spilled half of it over on the way.

“How is she?” Charles asked at once.

He slapped the basin down, causing more water to end up on the floor.

“Better, I think”.

Aziraphale was standing by the bed again, as if nothing happened. He smiled softly.

“You should get some rest, Charles. I will watch over her tonight.”

The novelist hesitated, not willing to leave his daughter again.

“Don’t worry”, the angel added. “I don’t think she is going to die tonight.”

***

Despite his best efforts, Charles Dickens didn’t sleep well that night. In fact, he didn’t sleep at all, turning over and over in his bed. Was it a good idea to leave Kate? He trusted his friend with all is heart but it wasn’t the same. What if she woke up and asked for him? Was Zira –because it was the name Aziraphale had given to him- able to face all situations? But is she was dead, he would have told him, right?

He got up as soon as he could and at 6 o’clock he was back in his daughter’s room. For a moment he could not believe what he was seeing. Kate was fully awake and happily chatting with Aziraphale. He had to blink twice to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

“Papa!” the little girl said when she saw him, her face brightening.

Charles instantly ran to the bed and hold her tight in is arms.

“Thank God”, he kept on muttering. He couldn’t know how right he was. “How did she…What did…how…” he said, tuning to Aziraphale without letting go of Kate.

“She woke up about an hour ago. It looks like she’s completely cured.”

Dickens looked at him, his eyes glowing from gratitude, relief and love.

“I don’t know what you did, or even if you have something to do with it, but I thank you with my hole heart.”

And Aziraphale smiled in return.

***

It was the first time Aziraphale truly passed over Heaven’s orders –the Arrangement didn’t count, not really- and as much ashamed as he felt, he was also angry. Really, properly angry. Angry with Heaven and mostly with Gabriel who would have let Kate die because he kept angels from performing miracles. Angry with these stupid human diseases who had caused thousands and thousands of deaths over the years. And finally, he was angry with himself for almost obeying Gabriel’s orders.

For the first time in his life, he was also starting to have doubts. Weren’t the angels supposed to spread good and help the humans? How could they do so if they got restraining orders?

_I can’t think like that._

He was doing God’s work. He had to keep on believing that was worth something. Everything that happened was part of God’s plans, and God’s plans were ineffable. Who was he to doubt them? Angels had fallen for asking such question; Crowley had fallen for that. But he, Aziraphale, guardian of the East Gate, wasn’t like them. He couldn’t be. He had to be better.

However, unholy thoughts were still sticking to his mind and just wouldn’t let go, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts to convince himself Gabriel surely had very good reasons to send him such note. Maybe he had indeed performed too many frivolous miracles and actually had to be reprimanded.

But every time he saw Kate’s smile, he couldn’t help but remember he had almost let her die.

He couldn’t keep on like that, and so he started to slowly get away from Charles and his family. It did made things better. He met with Crowley, who he hadn’t seen since he became friends with Dickens and the sight of the demon reminded him what could happen to him if he kept on doubting Heaven.

However he still got involved in Charles’ life, even from afar. He wasn’t always there to help the novelist through the crises he had to face –and God knows there were many- but whenever he could, he would perform a small miracle. In the late 1840 he learned his friend was working on a new project, something that, according to the rumors, would be far more personal than ever before.

It was in March 1850 that Aziraphale met Charles Dickens again, for what would be the last time. It was a Sunday morning and the bookshop was closed and so Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t be hearing the doorbell. Still, he did, and was even more surprised when he recognized his visitor. He had nothing to do with the man Aziraphale had left six years ago. He had grown a bear, and he looked like he had put on weight. As for the brand new suit he was wearing, that was the sign of his new-found opulence. When people saw him on the street, they surely thought that he had everything going wellfor him. Yet Aziraphale was not anybody, he was an angel and he knew Charles very well. He did not linger on his suit or his hat, instead he looked at him in the eyes and that’s where he found all the sadness and worries Charles was hiding. For a moment he blamed himself for letting him alone.

The novelist was holding a thick book in his hands, and held on to it as he was afraid to let it go. Aziraphale immediately figured out what it was.

“Charles, dear, what are you doing here?”

Seeing Charles’ face, Aziraphale knew it wasn’t what his friend would have wanted him to say. The visitor cleared his throat and took a few steps forward.

“This is _David Copperfield_. Or, more precisely, _The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger_. It is my new work. And this is the first edition ever published. “

This time, he went to Aziraphale, who was still sitting at his desk. He seemed to hesitate for a few seconds before putting the book in front of the angel.

“I want you to have it. I don’t know why you disappeared all those years, and I think that deep down, I don’t even want to. But I didn’t forget the time we spent together and this”, he pointed at the book, “is my way of thanking you for what you did for Kate six years ago, because I know now she is only alive because of you, even if you keep denying it” he added quickly before Aziraphale had a chance to do so.

“I can’t… I can’t accept it”, was all he said instead.

“Of course you can, why can’t you?”

Aziraphale looked at him deeply. Behind obvious sadness melt with gratitude, he could now see incomprehension in his eyes. He couldn’t understand why Aziraphale was refusing the book, the one that was his most personal one. He must have had thought about this a lot before giving him this edition, the very first one of a novel like this. He did not keep it to himself, he did not give it to his family; no, he chose to gave it to him. Aziraphale.

He had to accept it, and yet he couldn’t put himself to it because he knew that every time he would look at it he would remember he had almost let Kate die.

The angel looked down at the copy, and took it in his hand gently. The paper was soft under his touch, and he let his fingers play with the cover, following the curves of the title’s letters. It was indeed a splendid volume and he knew enough about Charles’ talent to know it was beautifully well written. Something was telling him that _David Copperfield_ was to become one of Charles Dickens’ most popular and loved piece of work and usually he would have done anything to own a book like that.

Yet he stayed silent, starring at the book in his hands without a word because he just didn’t know what to say. Charles eventually gave up on hoping for an answer.

“Alright. Well. I’ll leave you to it. You can always…come to the house whenever you want”, he said, knowing inside him that Aziraphale wouldn’t.

He made his way to the door and already had his hand on the handle when Aziraphale stopped him.

“Charles, dear, wait.”

The latter let his arm fall down and turned around, slowly. Aziraphale had stood up and was holding _David Copperfield_ tightly on his chest. Still avoiding Charles’ eyes, he walked towards him, hesitated for a few seconds before handing him the copy over.

“I know what that book represents to you and I can’t ever thank you enough for giving it to me but I can’t keep it here, in the bookshop. I don’t…”

The words “deserve it” died on his lips. He couldn’t say that, Charles wouldn’t understand. So instead he went for “want it to get damaged”.

“But you have always kept your books in perfect condition, Zira…”

“So I think you should take it back home”, Aziraphale said, not paying attention to Charles’ protests. “It will still be mine and if one day I want to have it back I will know where to find it. Until then, you will keep it with you.”

Understanding he wouldn’t be able to change Aziraphale’s mind, Charles took the copy with a sigh. This time, he left the bookshop without hesitating.

When he returned home, Dickens put the volume on his desk. At that time, he didn’t know for how long it will stay in his house. And more than three hundred years later, when Aziraphale finally decided to call Charles’ great-great-great-great-great son, the book was still there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley remembers the Fall and takes...well, a decision of some sort.

Two days later, a postman gave a thick package to Aziraphale. The angel took it carefully and untied it like it was the most precious object in the world.

It looked like no one had touched it in all these years. He brought it closer to his chest and closed his eyes, reveling in the smell of old paper. He could almost picture Charles walking into the bookshop that day. He still remembered the sadness and the disappointment in his eyes when he refused his gift the first time. Then, without being able to help it, he remembered Kate, laying in her bed, her body heating from the fever that was devouring her.

No, he couldn’t think like that. After all, he had saved her, and she had lived a good life. He had made the right choice.

The right choice… Such a weird thought. He was an angel, he was supposed to make the right choice, just like demons were made to make bad things and bring chaos in their wake. And yet, all demons weren’t bad. Crowley wasn’t. But then, Crowley wasn’t very good at being a demon –and himself wasn’t very good at being an angel either. That was something he had learned recently: there could be nice demons as well as bad angels, because no matter what Crowley kept on saying, he was nice.

Speaking of which, it was almost 4pm and Crowley was most certainly waiting for him in St James Park. Aziraphale put down the book, folded the paper in which it had been wrapped, put on his coat and closed the shop for the day. Then, he took the bus, rather excited at the thought of spending the afternoon with the demon. Afternoon that slowly turned into evening, and then into night, and at 1am, they were still solidly drinking.

“What I’m saying is”, said Crowley with a sudden and large movement that caused his drink to spill out, “that it’s stupid. Why would you create a music instrument that only uses four of your fingers if you were made with five?”

“I’m more concerned about the fact that human actually think that we, the angels I mean, are playing them. Why would they think that?”

“Because the sound is _angelic_.”

“Well, they never heard any harpist playing contemporary music.”

“Don’t tell me you have?”

“Once, and I promised myself it would never happen again.”

There was a silence, in which both of them drank what was in their glass and, in Crowley’s case, refilled it and drank it again.

“That doesn’t change anything!” he exclaimed suddenly, violently putting his glass on the table and causing Aziraphale to jump. “Why would you invent such a thing? That doesn’t make any sense!”

“It’s like the penw…the pin… The penguins”, stuttered Aziraphale. He was trying to refill his glass, but missed it four times before he managed to. “They have wings, but they don’t fly.”

“That’s what I’m saying”, Crowley agreed, having no idea what he was saying for he had lost the point of the conversation minutes ago. “They made so many weird and useless things up there”, he pointed at the ceiling, but was most probably talking about Heaven, “and then they make me fall for asking bloody questions about it!”

Aziraphale stopped what he was doing –which was putting his glass on the table- and stared at the demon, his brows furrowing. You could almost see little wheels turning above his head as he was intensely thinking.

“Do you…”

He did not dare to finish his sentence for he didn’t know how Crowley would react. That was a question he had always asked himself and that night, the temptation was too strong and the alcohol wasn’t helping.

“Do you…remember anything? From before your Fall, I mean?”

That single line was enough for Crowley to sober up at once. His stare turned colder than ice and he looked away so that Aziraphale couldn’t see the pain on his traits. In 6000 years, it was the first time the angel asked. Somehow he knew that would come out one day or another yet he had always thought it wouldn’t. That Aziraphale could like him for the demon he was without wanting to know about the angel he had been. Wasn’t he enough? Why did Aziraphale want to know more? What would it change?

He didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to get there. He didn’t want to talk about it. But the angel was still waiting. Crowley could feel his stare on him. If he left now, Aziraphale would be hurt and he didn’t want to start a fight with him.

“Not much. Practically nothing”, he said eventually.

“So you do remember some of it.”

Crowley put his glass on the table, his mind suddenly haunted by all the memories he had tried so many times to bury, but never could. What he wanted was for the angel to shut up and stopped asking questions about his past. He wanted to refill his glass and get drunk again, and talk about harps and penguins, but the words escaped his mouth before he could top them, and then it was too late.

“I remember the Fall. Oh yes, that I remember”, he said, laughing nervously. “The pain. The burn. None of us knew what we would have to endure”, and by “us” he meant all the Fallen. “We saw the angels disappearing in that giant black hole in the ground. We heard their screams, we could almost taste each other’s fear for we had no idea what was waiting for us down there. We had just discovered the concept of death and at one point we all thought that would be our punishment. How naïve of us.”

Aziraphale was still staring at him, silently, but Crowley did not seem to see him anymore. He was lost in his memories. He had never told anyone about his Fall before, and as much as he trusted and loved Aziraphale, it felt like he was falling all over again.

“I lots of aspects, Falling was way worse than dying. I remember it all. My own screams and fear when I found myself following Lucifer’s path. He had been the first to disappear. It felt like my body was burning from the inside. The heat was spreading everywhere, and it was so unbearable that I tried to rip my own skin off. And then it reached my wings. Nothing, you hear me angel, nothing you ever felt can be compared to that. It was like my wings were breaking, tearing apart and turning to ash, all at the same time. I think at one point they caught fire. Everything was on fire. I was on fire. It was all flames, and black, and pain, and burns, and fire. I don’t know how long it lasted. There was no such thing as time during the Fall. It could have lasted five minutes as well as five days.

And suddenly the Fall stopped, but not the burns. My wings, as I understood later, were becoming what they are now: black. Burned. He symbol of what I had become: a Fallen.

I was alone. There was no light. No sign of life. I thought I would be alone for eternity, that it was that, our punishment. Or maybe I was dead. I couldn’t get on my feet, it hurt too much. Suddenly I saw someone there, and I passed out. Next thing I know, I was surrounded by other demons, in Hell.”

Lost in his thought, he hadn’t noticed that, as he was speaking, Aziraphale had come closer to him. He was now sitting right next to him on the sofa and, when he slowly took his hand. Crowley jumped.

“Oh, my dear, I am so sorry for what happened to you. You did not deserve this and I never should have asked…”

“It’s alright, angel. It’s all in the past.”

He tried to smiled, and failed. It wasn’t all right. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he could almost feel his body heating. For a second he wished he could go home and sleep for at least a decade. Then, for the first time since he started his story, he looked at the angel and knew there was no place he would rather be than right there, his hand in the Aziraphale’s.

“You wanted to know, and it’s normal”, Crowley added. “I’m a demon. Of course you have questions. I’m like… a mysterious and unknown creature for you. I’m only surprised you waited 6000 years to ask them.”

“That is not…”

“What? True? Of course it is, angel, you just don’t want to admit it. But go on; ask me, if you really want to know what it was like!”

He wasn’t really angry, just tired, really tired. He couldn’t think straight and the words were coming out of his mouth as if he had no control over them.

He had expected Aziraphale to be angry with him, given the tone he had used, yet the angel stayed silent and far from looking upset, he only pressed Crowley’s hand harder.

“No, I won’t. We will only talk about it if you want to, and only when you are ready. It is not right from me to put you through this. And you are wrong, dear. I don’t want to know what it was like because I’m curious. I just want to understand you better, because… I care about you.”

This time, Crowley could not hide his surprise. It was the very first time someone cared about him, or at least told him so, and the fact that it was Aziraphale only made everything better. Of course he knew all that already, but the angel had never made it that explicit. For the first time, he faced him and, when Crowley dared meeting his eyes, he could see that Aziraphale was telling the truth. He was staring at him so intensely… Crowley had never seen him looking at anyone like that. Even if his own feelings were not mutual, he knew that he at least hold a special place in the angel’s heart.

Crowley had spent most of his life surrounded by demons whose only purposes were to bring evil on Earth and to win the war against Heaven. Demons did not care about each other, or know about things such as love or friendship. But Crowley was different. He had always been, and he had always known he was. That was maybe one of the reasons he loved Earth so much, because up there, there was no demons telling him what he should or shouldn’t be.

As for Aziraphale… He now knew the angel was accepting him for who he was. He sometimes showed disapproval towards some of his actions, but had never tried to change him. And now he wanted to understand him. That was something no one ever did.

If he had somehow been angry, he wasn’t anymore. He felt relieved. Grateful. And suddenly ready to keep on talking.

He also realized that if Aziraphale kept on staring at him like that, he would eventually kiss him or do another stupid thing he usually did. Therefore he looked away, yet didn’t move his hand. And when he spoke again, his voice was soft and calm.

“I don’t remember much more, you know. Just bribes. Feelings. No real images though. I know I asked questions, because I wanted to understand what I was doing. I know I met Lucifer, and that he convinced me those questions were legitimate. I know I looked up to him, that I admired him. _He_ was the one I followed into the rebellion. I know all of that, but I don’t really remember it.”

There was a silence before Aziraphale spoke up, as if he was choosing his words very carefully.

“But… Why would you remember the Fall and not the rest of it?”

“I don’t know. She probably wanted us to keep those memories forever, as a reminder”, Crowley sighed, falling back into the sofa. “What it was like. The result of our rebellion. Our punishment. But you know what?” He turned to Aziraphale. “It only stirred up our hatred and our will of revenge.”

Win the war. That had been Hell’s mantra for millennia. Win the war. Defeat the angels. Destroy the Earth. Crowley had never wanted any of it. He really enjoyed living among humans and, most of all, he loved being with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale…

His eyes opened wide.

All this time, he had thought about his own situation and feelings, and never about Aziraphale. If he had fallen for asking questions, what would happen to Aziraphale if he ever revealed his feelings, and if the angel appeared to feel the same? Could he fall because of him? He wouldn’t be able to live with that. He knew Aziraphale, and knew the angel would not bear to belong to demon kind, or not being able to perform miracles anymore. He tried to picture Aziraphale with wings as black as his. He couldn’t. Aziraphale was meant to be an angel, and he would never be the one to change that.

Yet his feelings were still there, burning inside him. He knew one day or another they would come out.

There was only one thing he could do: take his distances, at least until he resolved this problem. He had to stop hanging out with the angel so much, or spending all his time at the bookshop. And that would start now.

“I need to go”, he said, getting on his feet.

In his rush, he kicked the table in front of him and Aziraphale’s glass fell over, spreading its content everywhere on the carpet. The angel was so surprised by this sudden move that he didn’t even stop the wine from dripping on the floor.

“Crowley, my dear, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I… I just need to go.”

He hurried toward the door, and when Aziraphale truly realized what’s was going on, he was already out in the street.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes an unexpected meeting and pays Sherlock a visit

One hour later, Aziraphale had taken _David Copperfield_ to the backroom, still unsure of what to do now. The volume he had in his hand was the only copy he ever held, and he had never read it. He knew that beyond being Charles’ most famous novel, it was also his most personal one and he somehow felt like reading it would be like invading his friend’s privacy. This was stupid, obviously. After all, Charles would never have written it in the first place, let alone publishes it, if he hadn’t wanted anyone to read it. And Aziraphale had always been curious.

He had long thought having the book back in the bookshop would make all his ancient feelings and doubts resurface, and even though he did feel something at the sight of the copy, those feelings were not as strong as he had feared. Maybe that had something to do with the all Apocalypse-thing, and the fact that he was now out of Heaven’s grip.

He slowly took the book and opened it very carefully, as if it could break under his touch. He hesitated a few more seconds before reading the first sentence, and was instantly caught up in the story.

It was as good as he had imagined, if not even better. Charles had managed to mix his own experiences with the story with so much talent that someone who didn’t know him wouldn’t notice, and the ones who did felt somehow privileged. It was personal without being a biography, realistic yet with the little touch of magic and hope that came with Charles’ writing.

Aziraphale was easy to please. He laughed when he was supposed to laugh, loved the characters he was supposed to love and hated –though not really hated, because of his angelic nature- those who were meant to be hated. He could picture himself inside the story, going on adventures with David Copperfield.

He had been sitting on his chair for at least two hours and had already read more than half of it when a sudden and loud noise broke his concentration. His mind still with David, he needed a couple of seconds just to remember where he was. It was as though the doorbell had rung, but it couldn’t have: it was 3.30 am. No customers would be mad enough to come at 3.30 am. It must have been his imagination.

Just then, he heard books falling over and someone silently cursing. There were no more doubts; someone had broken inside his bookshop. But what for? What were they looking for inside a bookshop?

He closed his book and put it on the table beside him, not forgetting to mark the page. He got up, and went into the bookshop. It was just as he had left it, dark, and apparently empty, except that it wasn’t, because he could sense someone else with him. With a snap of his fingers, he turned on the lights. There was still no one in sight.

“Hello? He said. Who is there? Can I help you?”

Only silence responded. The angel took a few steps forward, when all of a sudden, someone busted in front of him and next thing he knew, the stranger was threatening him with a knife.

“Where is it? Said the man.

“Where is what?” said Aziraphale.

He wasn’t panicking at all –in fact, he had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. In 6000 years, he had had the chance to know much worse than a knife. After all, he had survived the end of the world two months before. However, his lack of reactions seemed to strongly disturb the other man.

The latter was taller than the angel, and all dressed in black, from his snickers to his jacket whose hood was covering his head. All Aziraphale could see were his dark brown eyes, opened wide and burning with anger and fear. That was enough for him not to blame him: whatever he was doing here, it wasn’t under his own will.

“The book! Where is the book?” shouted the stranger.

He made a move forward. He certainly wanted to appear menacing, however when he realized Aziraphale didn’t even flinch, his hand started to shake a little.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you are talking about. Now, dear boy, if you could just put this knife down”, he said, pointing at the weapon. “I would hate being discorporated, especially these days. They would never give me another body again, and I appear to be quite fond of this one.”

If his goal had been to disconcert his interlocutor, he couldn’t have done it any better. The man was now looking at him like he was some sort of alien –which in a way he was, at least for him- and was clearly hesitating on whether or not he should keep pointing a knife at him.

“Just… Just tell me where the book is and nobody has to get hurt”.

“As much as I would like to help you, I really do not know which book you are talking about.”

“ _David Copperfield_ of course!”

Aziraphale stared at him, surprised and a little bit annoyed. What was it with _David Copperfield_ these days? No one had mentioned it for ages and all of a sudden everyone was looking for it. At least Sherlock Holmes did not come with a weapon, and that incited him to sell him the book rather than the man in front of him.

“Well, you see, I don’t have any more copies to sell. However, I think that you can find it in any other library in London. Just… come during the opening hours, would you? Now, I’m really busy and I would appreciate it if you could leave.”

The man did not seem to understand how Aziraphale could stay so calm in the situation he was in. He didn’t look frightened at all, and yet he had a knife about 10cm away from his chest! And what was that about the “I don’t want to discorporate” thing? Who on Earth was this man? His mind was telling –or more like screaming- him to do as he was told and leave at once, but he couldn’t, couldn’t he? He had to collect the book first. The man did say he didn’t have it though… Could he have got the address wrong? There weren’t that many bookshops in this part of Soho! The book had to be there, and he had to get it. He just needed to show the blonde man he was not joking. He was the one holding a knife after all; what could happen to him? He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but if he had to look threatening…

He made a move forward. Aziraphale rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh, and did something with his right hand. Next thing he knew, the stranger was standing right next to the British Museum, at the other side of London.

***

After that, Aziraphale wasn’t in the mood of reading anymore. It was around 4am; that gave him at least four other hours before going to Sherlock’s. He looked around him, wondering how he could pass the time. What if he reorganized his bookshop completely? No, it was already made so that customers could not find what they were looking for.

He eventually put on his beige coat and went out, conscientiously locking the door behind him. He knew the stranger would not come back, but he couldn’t take the chance. He felt a shiver down his spine. Not wanting to sell his books was one thing, being stolen was another.

The night was cold. The stars were disappearing behind the smoke and the fog, and the only yellowish light came from the streetlamps that lit up the road. Sometimes, the angel remembered how it was like, five hundred years earlier, when you could see shooting stars in the center of London. There weren’t any cars at that time. The air wasn’t polluted, skyscrapers weren’t deforming the landscape. People were not much happier, and life was not easier, but the planet felt better. And Aziraphale could not help feeling sorry for all these trees that were cut so that people could turn them into paper, or all the species that were endangered; after all, he had helped create them.

After all these years living there, he knew London by heart. Of course, he had traveled. A lot. He had been in France, in the US, in Germany…even in Australia once, during the 14th century, but he always came back to London. His heart belonged here. In all the places he had seen, none felt like London. Yes it was polluted, yes, there were homeless people asking for money, but there was something about London he couldn’t quite explain. He loved walking in the city at night, when everything was calm and peaceful. During the day, it was overcrowded. Everyone was rushing down the streets, talking loudly, running… At that time of the night, London was his.

He eventually reached Tower Bridge and stopped for a moment to admire the view. Dawn was coming and on the horizon the sky was already becoming all red and yellow. The angel loved watching sunrises. Much more than sunsets, it felt like a privilege because many didn’t have the chance to see it.

He had watched it with Crowley many times as well. No matter which country they were in, they often met early in the morning just to see the sun rising. They usually didn’t talk much; they didn’t need to. It was only them, and the nature around them.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and remembered that morning back in 1803. They had met by chance in Northern England, and once their respective orders had been completed, they had spent hours together, just talking and wandering about. When the sun had started to show itself, they were near the sea and Aziraphale had convinced Crowley to go to the beach to see it. They had sat down. Crowley had been complaining about having sand in his shoes, and had ended up taking them off.

They had stayed there until the sun was high in the sky and even then, neither of them had wanted to go. And so they had shared lunch, and went back to London together.

Aziraphale opened his eyes again. The sun was starting to appear behind the buildings.

He didn’t know why Crowley had left so suddenly. Was it something he had said or done? Did it have something to do with the talk about his Fall? It had to be. The question now was…would he come back? Well, of course he would, but when? He hoped it would be really soon, because now that they were free, he wanted to spend as much time as possible with the demon.

He had always wanted to, ever since they met in the Garden. At first, he didn’t know why. He had thought that it was because he was a demon, and that it was just curiosity. However, as centuries had passed, he had slowly started to understand, although he didn’t want to. And then, in 1941, he finally admitted the truth: he loved Crowley.

There was only one problem –actually, there were more than one but still- : Crowley was a demon, and demons weren’t supposed to love. Even though Crowley was not an ordinary demon, there wasn’t any point of revealing his feelings. He would only make an idiot of himself. That didn’t change the fact that he didn’t want to be away from him. They finally had the chance to be together, whatever it would mean, and he didn’t want to ruin it. He couldn’t force him to anything, though. All he could do was wait, and hopefully the demon would come around.

It was now 7h15 and he had just enough time to fetch _David Copperfield_ at the bookshop before going to 221b Baker Street, where he was supposed to meet Mr. Holmes at 9 precisely. 

He arrived there just on time. He hesitated a few seconds between the doorbell and the knocker before going to the latter. A few seconds later, the door opened on a rather old looking woman.

“Oh, hello, I er… I’ve got an appointment with Mister Sherlock Holmes.

-Of course, come inside.” She said with a smile.

He obeyed. The entry hall was dark and narrow. In front of him, stairs were leading to the first floor and on the right another corridor was going to what seemed to be another apartment. Aziraphale quickly figured it out: the woman had to be lending the flat upstairs to Sherlock Holmes, and was herself living on the ground floor. His intuition was confirmed when she looked up to the first floor and shouted: “Boys! You’ve got a client!”

“For the last time, Mrs. Hudson, John is at work!” responded Sherlock’s voice.

Mrs. Hudson had an exasperated sigh, and told Aziraphale to take the stairs. He did so and entered a room full of…things. The wallpaper had an old-fashioned pattern, and someone had drawn a yellow smiley-face on it. Somehow, one had managed to shoot at it with a gun, and the middle of it was riddled with small holes. Just below, a sofa creaked under documents and books, as well as the table, and every other furniture. Aziraphale didn’t know what Sherlock Holmes was doing for a living, but what was clear was that he was messy. However, the place radiated with love. Sherlock did not live alone, and he was clearly in love with his roommate, who had to be this John he was talking about.

Speaking of, Holmes was in the room as well. He was sitting in a chair in a rather odd-looking position, with his hands under his chin and his eyes closed as if he was praying. Aziraphale didn’t make a move, afraid of disturbing him in whatever he was doing. Suddenly, Sherlock opened his eyes with a cry of excitement. He reached for his cell phone on the table beside him, quickly sent a text –Aziraphale had never seen anyone typing that fast- and then turned to his visitor, who was still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“Right, Mr. Fell. Please sit down.”

“Oh, no, I’m not staying,” Aziraphale said.

He took a step forward and handed him the copy of _David Copperfield_ he had held onto his chest until now. Sherlock’s eyes brightened, like a child on Christmas day except it wasn’t his present but the one he was supposed to offer. Aziraphale couldn’t know, of course, but he was one of the few people to have witnessed Sherlock being excited for something other than a murder.

“Well, thank you Mr. Fell. But do tell me”, he added as Aziraphale was heading to the door, “why have you never read it?”

Aziraphale stopped as once. He slowly turned to Sherlock.

“I’m sorry?” he said, smiling nervously.

“Oh, I mean you have, but only yesterday. However, you’ve had it for quite some time. Probably a gift, from someone you deeply liked, but you haven’t kept it. Why wouldn’t a bookseller accept a gift like that?”

Aziraphale stared at him silently, slightly shocked. How could this man, who he had only met once and for no longer than a few minutes, could know so much about him?

Sherlock was still looking at the book, like he was analyzing it. For the first time since he had entered the 221b, Aziraphale regretted his choice. He had a sudden urge to take the volume back and leave.

“You didn’t even finish it”, Sherlock continued. “What stopped you?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about” said Aziraphale, but he soon realized Sherlock wasn’t waiting for an answer.

He wasn’t even paying the slightest attention to the angel, who felt unsure of what he should do: should he leave, or should he stay around in case Mr. Holmes had something else to say to him? But what about the book? Besides, as much as he was annoyed and surprised by Sherlock’s deductions, he had to admit that he was kind of curious. How could the dark haired man know so much about him?

“Please, be careful with that”, he said when Sherlock started to flip through the pages. “It is an old and fragile object”.

“Obviously, since it is a first edition. In fact, this is the first edition, the very first to be published. But I think you already knew that, am I right? How did you find such a copy? Or, to be more precise, who would give you such a copy? Is it a family heritage? No, you can’t be related to the Dickens, and…”

He suddenly stopped talking when a small piece of paper fell out from between the pages. Sherlock picked it up. It was an ordinary sheet of paper folded in four, the sort of paper you could find in every store. What was intriguing, on the other hand, was the message written on it. It was a series of five numbers in an apparently disconnected order: 9-13-7-9.

Sherlock’s eyes brightened up.

“What is it?” asked Aziraphale.

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, much to Aziraphale’s surprise, he started to smell the paper. Just when he thought the man couldn’t act more oddly. He then ran to the nearby light and put the paper under it. Finally he took a magnifying glass out of his pocket and carefully observed the writing.

“I’m… I’m assuming Charles Dickens isn’t the author of that note, is he? Aziraphale said.

“And I’m assuming you hadn’t reached that part in your reading yet” Sherlock responded without taking his eyes off the message.

This time, Sherlock’s deduction didn’t bother Aziraphale (mostly because it was more of an easy guess). He stepped forward, trying to have a look at the paper. Was it some sort of code? Could it be that it was meat for him? But who could have written such a strange message?

“How would I know? Said Sherlock, causing Aziraphale to jump. It’s not my book, is it? Well, it is now, although it reminds me that I didn’t pay it yet. Don’t worry, I didn’t read your thoughts, at least not in that way. I simply saw how you reacted. You’re just like John. He’s still surprised every time I do that. Why, I have no idea. It’s not that complicated to follow one’s thoughts. “

While talking, he made his way to the sofa and started to throw one thing after another on the floor, looking for something.

“Can I… maybe I can help you”, offered the angel.

“I doubt you would know here my wallet is.”

“Oh! You mean… It’s okay, dear boy, you can stop searching. There’s no need.”

“What, you don’t want to be paid?” Said Sherlock, turning to Aziraphale.

That man was definitely one of his kind. Shop sellers weren’t supposed to give away their products, especially books like that. It would cost a fortune at auction and the man wanted to give it to him for free? And what was he always calling him “dear boy”? He looked older than him, that was true, but not _that_ much.

“I can’t accept that.”

“Oh, but I have to insist. It’s okay, it’s only…”

But Sherlock wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. His eyes had caught something on Aziraphale who started to feel uncomfortable under his stare.

“What’s that?”

“What is what?”

“That mark on your throat.”

“What mark? I don’t have any mark on my throat.”

Sherlock moved a little closer. He brushed his fingers on Aziraphale’s throat, observing the slight wound.

“You were attacked last night, weren’t you? Who did that to you?”

The angel understood, and immediately felt relieved. He had thought Sherlock had discovered something worse.

“Oh, that! It was only a young man who came into my shop yesterday. The funny thing is, he was looking for _David Copperfield_. I told him I hadn’t any copy left, but he was rather insistent.”

“He threatened you?”

Why would anyone want a book so badly that they threaten the bookseller with a knife?

“He did, but we eventually reached an…understanding. He left”

“And he was looking for that book, you said.”

“Not _that_ book in particular, but yes.”

“Oh, I think he was. It can't be a coincidence that we found this message hidden between the pages. Did you see the man? What did he look like?”

Sherlock’s mind was back into work. A message, a knife, a book, this looked like a very interesting case. He had to know more about it. It didn’t matter that he was already working on two other cases; he could never resist a mystery. Was it his fault that the police never figured out anything by themselves? _Which reminds me, I have to phone Lestrade about the robbery._

“Why would you want to know?” Said Aziraphale.

“Because it’s my job to solve mysteries. I’m Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the whole world. I came up with the idea myself.”

That explained a lot.

“You invented your own job?”

“Every job has to be invented at some point”, said Sherlock and Aziraphale had to admit he was right. “So, about the man…”

“He was rather tall, and all dressed in black. I didn’t see him properly, but I noticed he had beautiful blue eyes.”

Sherlock smiled a little. He didn’t really know the man, it seemed very much like him to pay attention at the eye colour of the man that was attacking him.

That was when they heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock muttered something under his breath. Aziraphale didn’t understand it but it sounded like “Lestrade…always…wrong time…can’t do anything on his own.” The angel wondered if Sherlock was always this rude to people or if this was a bad day.

A man entered the room. He was panting. He and Sherlock obviously knew each other and Aziraphale felt like he was too much.

“Ah, Lestrade, I was just about to phone you.”

“What? Why? You can’t already know why I’m here!”

“There has been a development in our jeweler case that requires my presence. Something urgent and unexpected. A new body perhaps? Found quite near here, otherwise you wouldn’t have run all the way here.”

“How do you know…”

“I’ve heard sirens coming up the street. Besides, I can tell by your shoes you have been to Manchester Square, they are currently remaking the road there.”

“Well, it’s…”

“Who is dead?”

Sherlock was putting on his coat. He seemed to completely have forgotten Aziraphale was still in the room. The detective folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket.

“Arthur Bawl.”

According to Lestrade’s face, he was expecting Sherlock to react to the name. Sherlock didn’t and looked at Lestrade like he was waiting for him to say what was special about this “Arthur Bawl”. Lestrade had an exasperated sigh.

“Have you not read the files I gave you? Those you asked me to give you? With all the jeweler’s acquaintances' names?”

“Oh, those files? John read them, so I didn’t bother. It must be somewhere here. But do tell me, why is Mr. Arthur Bawl so special?”

“He was the jeweler’s assistant.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am not an english speaker so i there are mistakes please tell me


End file.
